


Detained

by qalets (Qalets)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Lets Write Sherlock, M/M, Missing Scene, Stag Night, challenge 14, letswritesherlock, locked in a cell, lots of pacing, rule of three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 20:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1997595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qalets/pseuds/qalets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men, one locked room, so much subtext.<br/>My entry for Letswritesherlock's challenge 14 "One Thousand Stag Nights" - the missing scene from Sherlock and John's brief sojourn in jail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detained

**Author's Note:**

> So I’m just a sucker for two people locked in a room sorting out their issues.  
> 

A breath, three paces and a turn.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

“Pacing won’t help.” John’s voice.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

“In fact it’ll probably just make it worse.”

A breath, three paces and a turn.

“Is your inner ear made of steel? I’m getting dizzy just watching you.”

A breath, three paces and a turn.

“Sherlock.” John snaps.

Sherlock whirls to face him, not breaking his stride.

“I can’t think.” He spits out vehemently. A beat of loaded eye contact and then he looks away.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

John is watching him from atop the single sleeping bench. His back against the wall, knees bent up in front of him, hands hanging down between them. The featureless cell around them provides the perfect canvas to Sherlock’s dark outline, pacing back and forth before him.

“Alcohol can do that to you.” John points out.

“It can do that to _you_.” Sherlock volleys back.

The silent beat of a bitten off response, John presses his lips together.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

John closes his eyes and tips his head back against the tile, Sherlock’s image replaced by sound. Shoes on the linoleum.

Click, click, click, slide.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

“Just because that brain of yours is bigger than the average person’s,” John addresses the ceiling, “Doesn’t mean it won’t react exactly the same way with enough beer.”

“But it was a precise calculation.”

“Yes Sherlock,” John placates with a sigh.

“I accounted for every possible variable...”

“I’m sure.”

“Height, weight, experience, time, concentration, strength…” Sherlock continues, still a noticeable slur on the final word.

Click, click, click, slide.

“You missed one.” John means to say it under his breath, but his words coincide with a pause in Sherlock’s.

The shoes still suddenly.

“I did?”

“Yes,” John’s sigh of resignation.

“I couldn’t…”

John looks back to him suddenly, “How about your best friend who just wants you to relax a bit for a change?!”

The words come out more angrily than John intended, alcohol still flaring in his bloodstream. Sherlock blinks at him from the middle of the room, his face almost as pale as the wall behind him, backlit with a shadow of dark curls.

John can watch the understanding of his own words pass across Sherlock’s pale eyes, a visible representation of the effects of alcohol. Sherlock breaks eye contact. Starts to pace again.

“You spiked my drink.” A breath.

“Added to it.” John corrects.

“That’s spiking.” Three paces.

“Well, yes, but nothing too bad.”

“You ruined my calculations.” A turn.

John coughs back a laugh.

“I guess I did. Trust you to worry about your maths.”

“I never worry about my maths.”

“You just were.”

“I wasn’t worried, I was confused. My calculations were flawless.”

“I guess I’m just a variable you can’t calculate.”

“You always are.”

The banter falters. Sherlock’s words having surprised even him.

A breath, three paces and a turn.

Immeasurable minutes pass by.

“You’re still making me dizzy.”

“Alcohol will do that to you.” Sherlock repeats John’s words. “I assume you imbibed the same concoction you also fed to me.”

“Vodka, Sherlock. Normal people call it vodka.”

“I’m not a normal person.”

“That you’re not.” John closes his eyes against the pacing again, behind his eyelids it’s as if he can still see the dark undulating against the pale.

“Is that the kind of thing best friends do?” Sherlock asks.

“Is what?” John feels like he’s clawing at the edges of sleep, lulled by the rhythmic tap of Sherlock’s shoes.

“Spike drinks?”

John snorts. “Only on special occasions.”

“Like a stag do?” Sherlock asks innocently.

“I was kidding Sherlock. No, it’s not what best friends generally do. I apologise. I shouldn’t have.”

“Thank you.”

The clicking stops.

“Is that what you were looking for?” John asks, “An apology?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

The room seems quiet now without the sound of footfalls, John keeps his eyes closed.

“What then?” He asks.

“I…” Sherlock starts, but stops.

John opens his eyes, finds Sherlock lent against the far wall, hands behind him, an uncertain look on his face.

“You’re still insisting upon the idea that I am your best friend.” Sherlock states.

“Yes.” John says slowly.

“Oh.”

Sherlock looks back at John with a kind of open wonder that makes affection rise like a flush across John’s chest.

“Of course you are.” John’s words come out in rasp. “God,” John blinks three times, as if he doesn’t expect Sherlock to still be there when he’s done. “God, if you…”

John stops.

Their eyes lock.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, eyes darting across John’s face as if trying to read text written there.

Nothing is said.

John sighs and looks away again. He expects the pacing to resume but instead the click of Sherlock’s shoes approaches him across the room, followed by the creak of the bench as Sherlock settles beside him.

He cracks an eye to find Sherlock in a near-identical pose as himself, head tipped back against the wall. Eyes closed. John closes his own eyes against the temptation to study his profile, thinking instead of the image they must project from the doorway. Side by side. Long and short. Cold and warm. Firm and soft. The black and the white. Identically positioned, like Yin and Yang: a part of each in each. Woven together.

The silence stretches on.

“You do know?” John’s words are so low he half wonders if he said them aloud, the question only half formed. “You should know. If you don’t, you should.”

John can hear Sherlock swallow, but says nothing.

“It’s just,” John starts again, a rabbit hole he’d had no intention of falling down, “Now I’m wondering.” John continues haltingly, “I’m getting married. And you don’t know.” A pause. “I guess that’s because I’ve never said. It’s probably the beer talking, but I guess there’s something. I should say. I mean, I’ve meant to say it. Well, always. And then never have.”

John’s mouth seems to be talking without his brain’s input, more verbal ticks than actual words.

Sherlock doesn’t respond from beside him and John doesn’t have the nerve to check his reaction. Instead he presses on.

“It’s my stag night. I can’t believe it’s my stag night. Sometimes I wonder how I ever found myself in this position. But Mary. She’s, she’s _Mary_ and well, she was there. And she’s so good for me. What I needed. But then she was there and I never said. And, I guess, this isn’t exactly the best time, but when is? Since it’s not likely I’ll ever get a chance like this again I might as well say it now.”

John opens his eyes, rolling his head along the wall to face Sherlock beside him. Somehow he’s not surprised to find a pair of gunmetal eyes staring back him. Expressionless. Lost.

“I,” John starts, but his throat closes up. Every single moment that seems to have led up to this one rushes behind his eyes like a montage: them, side by side. Two halves of the same.

They continue to look at each other. Barely two feet of wall separating them.

“It’s always you, Sherlock.” John says in a rush of emotion.

And the words are spoken.

The weight of them lift all at once from John’s shoulders, no longer crowding the cell with them; an elephant in a tiny room. The barrier of cold tile feels like no space at all, easy to cross, the work of a second for John to raise a hand and lay it along the side of Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock’s face is a blank page, bright wide eyes and smooth forehead. John can read wonder there, a contradictory mix of confusion and understanding, so open and frank that John has to supress the urge to laugh. Instead he follows his hand across that void, leaning in and gently capturing an uncomprehending mouth against his own.

The kiss is fleeting, soft. A summation of everything that has gone before, John pulls back almost immediately to search out Sherlock’s eyes again, seeking affirmation.

But what he finds isn’t the face that he leant in to kiss. Sherlock has closed down, every feature guarded. John has seen this Sherlock before: cool, calm, professional. This is the Sherlock that meets clients, solves cases, navigates a confusing social world of human nature that he often doesn’t quite understand.

John, I…” Sherlock’s tone is as formal as his expression.

For John realisation is a tidal surge, like being submerged slowly into a pool of warm water. The beer had freed his tongue, the rush of the case and the heady nearness of Sherlock had banished his nerves. He’s overstepped the mark, he’s said too much.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak again,

“No.” John stops him, not wanting to hear more. “No I…” He stops. “God, I… God.”

An exhalation. John’s hands over his own face now, as if to rub away the memory. The taste of Sherlock’s lips on his own. The hot embarrassment.

“John.” Sherlock says again, “You should know I hold you in the highest regard.” 

But John can’t stand it. Being so close and yet suddenly so far away, it’s his turn to stand now, rushing away from Sherlock as if burnt. A breath, three paces and a halt. Hands braced against the far wall, head hanging down, Sherlock behind him.

“Stop it.” John half tells Sherlock, half tells the wall before him.

“I must apologise if I’ve given you the wrong impression.” Sherlock continues, this other Sherlock, not the one of a few minutes previous.

“You haven’t,” John replies, unheard.

“But you know, I…”

“Yes.” John acknowledges, cutting him off.

“I’m...” Sherlock starts again.

“Yes.”

“Well, I consider myself to be…”

“I know,” John says, “Don’t say it.”

“Yes.” Sherlock responds. Their conversation conducted without any real words having been spoken at all.

A pause. This time filled with knowledge. John continues this contemplation of the floor, head hanging between his hands. When the weight of the words they’re not saying gets too much he pushes himself back with a wordless grunt, turning without meeting Sherlock’s eyes to sit on the floor in front of the bench. As close as he dares.

“I’m an idiot.” John states simply, then pauses, expecting a response but not getting one. “I shouldn’t have… I…” John starts with his usual eloquence, “I’m sorry.” He finishes.

“You don’t need to apologise.” Sherlock’s voice is softer now, but John still can’t bring himself to look at him.

“I’m getting married for god’s sake.” Disbelieving humour in John’s voice.

"Mm,” A wordless agreement from behind him.

“I,” John stretches out his legs, looks down at his hands. “I guess that vodka was stronger than I thought.” He tries lightly instead and hears a quiet laugh from behind him, the gravel of a breathy giggle.

“It must have been if you managed to get into a fight over ash,” John continues, then laughs for real: “And for pity’s sake,” John is possessed with it now, conjuring up images from earlier in the evening, “Madonna?!”

“Who?” Sherlock asks innocently and John is lost. Head falling back into his hands, this time in laughter, back heaving with mirth, gasping for air.  Sherlock is right there along with him, his throaty laugh a warm rumble of joy in John’s chest. And as Sherlock laughs his hand falls against the back of John’s neck, long fingers brushing across the short hairs there and sending shivers down John’s spine. An acknowledgement. An understanding.

It’s still there when John finally sobers some minutes later.

“We should try and get some sleep.” John says.

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice is deep and lethargic.

“Probably given the met enough of a show this evening.” John acknowledges.

“I expect George will  be here to bail us out soon.”

John snorts, doesn’t bother to correct him. “Yes, probably. You think he’ll be sore we didn’t meet him after his shift?”

"We were going to meet him after his shift?" 

“Of course we were.”

"Oh.” A breathy sigh from behind him, Sherlock’s fingers retreat. “I preferred it this way.”

"What way?” John asks. Feeling, rather than seeing, the shift in the bench as Sherlock stretches out, selfishly taking all the space. “The ‘being thrown in a cell and letting your mate make a fool of himself’ way?”

“I’m the one who almost got into a fight over ash,” Sherlock reminds him unselfishly, and John smiles at the way Sherlock can still surprise him. “I meant,” Sherlock turns, his deep voice a warm rush against the back of john’s ear. “I meant, just the two of us.”

“Yes,” John says, closing his eyes. Feeling sleep curl up around them. “Against the rest of the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> It’s time to do my apologising here people. I wanted this to fit completely within the actual show, so sorry, there was going to be no fluffy romantic ending in this one!
> 
> I came at this idea from the perspective of: if they had aired their issues at this point in the story, what would they have had to say? In my view Sherlock comes to his “completely head over heels with John Watson” epiphany during the speech he gives at John’s wedding, so he’s completely in the dark during the stag night, but perhaps something happened that night to help Sherlock with that epiphany? And then doesn’t that make the rest of season 3 absolutely heart-breaking? John has put his cards on the table and been rejected, by the time Sherlock catches up with him, it’s too late. John bared his soul and was shot down, that’s going to take a bit of healing. 
> 
> Thanks to all that have read. Would love to know what you think.


End file.
